Let Us Be Criminals
by The Tribe
Summary: The tale of a nineteenth century forbidden romance between Mr Kurt Hummel, an English tailor, and Mr Blaine Anderson, the illegitimate child and only heir to a Scottish businessman. Prepare for angst, fencing, and enough sexual tension to fry an egg.
1. Chapter One

A/N: I tweaked my style for a more Jane Austen-esque feel. Hope it sits well.

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><p>1819, March<p>

Mr Kurt Hummel, a proper English man and struggling performance artist, having just graduated from Oxford was brilliant in all aspects a gentleman should be in. He was fluent in French, could recite almost any Shakespearean sonnet, and knew all of Dobereiner's Law of Triads by heart. He was not a rich man, but he was well enough off; tailoring was his trade. He was also quite handsome: an 'odd' sort of handsome, as the ladies deemed it, but certainly desirable. Despite his apparent eligibility, he had not a wife nor fiancée to speak of, had not one courtship in his life. He was, of course, close with women - as close as propriety would allow - but a courting was never engaged. There was no understanding made between any women in his life dealing with marriage, except perhaps that there would not be an understanding at all. In fact, Kurt did not seem to be interested in women in the least, except for perhaps the splendid outfits they wore.

He was different from other men, with his singularity and secret affinity for romance novels. Hints had been dropped about him, gossip darkly insinuated, something his father had taken acute notice of. Therefore, by some warped logic, Kurt's moderately wealthy father arranged for him join a gentlemen's club in London, where he had his own flat.

Perhaps his reasoning was that if Kurt spent more time with _normal_ men, drinking and smoking and talking of politics, he would realise his need for a wife and find a pretty lass to court. Not only that, but his father had promised him a position at a clothing and fabric store with one of his contacts. The Hummels had been carriage menders for a long time, a family trade, so his father recognising Kurt's calling was not a gesture lost on him. Despite the pushy nature of it all, Kurt was so fond of London and so excited for his new employment, he did not protest his father's absurd choice. His land lady Ms Pilsbury seemed aware of his queer disposition, and did not seem to mind as long as the rent was sent in on time.

As his carriage stopped before the building, Kurt struggled to stifle a yawn. He had been traveling for days from his hometown Bath, and having just finished Jane Austen's _Northanger Abbey_ was already feeling a little homesick for the place; but he did not waste time, stepping down from his carriage and nodding amiably to a passing female Londoner. She blushed, grasped her skirts to free her legs, and quickened her pace. However, the coy and flirtatious gesture was lost on the gentleman, who rather than admiring the curves of her stockinged ankles, was dazzled by the exquisite make and lace of her dress and bonnet.

Kurt took a deep breath of the sooty, London air. The day was growing dark, and he could smell the burning coal-gas as the lamps in the streets were lit.

Ah London!

Kurt took supper with Ms Pilsbury, bid her goodnight, then tucked away to bed, his nerves in a frenzy in anticipation for the morrow's first day at McKinley's Fine Tailors and his first meeting with the Dalton Gentlmen's Club.

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><p>'McKinley's?' grumbled Kurt, squinting up at the hanging sign over his place of employment. 'They'll think us Irish.'<p>

'Scottish, actually,' corrected a voice beside him, breaking Kurt's reverie. Coincidentally, his accent was Scottish.

Startled, gathering his wits, Kurt turned to the man standing beside him. He was stocky, not tall - being inches shorter than Kurt, a man of long limbs but below six feet himself - but dashing, nonetheless. His skin lacked the pallor that went hand-in-hand with living in England. It was not a distinct brown, but had a darker glow about it, a tinge of exoticism. Or was it a natural tone? If it wasn't, then the flesh itself was more a hint of the man's wealth (that he had the means to travel) rather than an attractive quality - though the colour did suit him. Thoughts on the man's skin or how it differed to his own ivory paleness were not such that burdened Kurt, however, as he simply marveled at the stranger's handsome, if not slightly tinted, face. Almost-black curls over the top of his head were visibly soft, and Kurt found himself, most improperly, desiring nothing more than to run his fingers through the velvety-looking hair. And such eyes! Oh the Scotsman's _eyes_! Thick, dark lashes a young lady would do unspeakable things to call her own surrounded the hazel eyes that Kurt thought (quite daftly) could and would swallow him up if he lingered too long.

Despite that, he couldn't help but stare, those eyes locking him in place.

Kurt tried to speak, but found he could not. The man saved him the trouble. 'No, I understand your meaning. For reasons unbeknownst to both parties, or, more accurately, unsaid, the English are not too fond of the Irish. But do not worry; we have our faithful and regular customers.'

'We?' managed Kurt.

'Oh how rude of me!' he exclaimed amicably, extending a hand, for which Kurt shook, tucking his sewing kit beneath an arm. Thusly, the man introduced himself: 'My name is Blaine Anderson.'

'Kurt Hummel,' he said by way of introduction. 'Anderson? My father mentioned that name...You are the proprietor of McKinley's, correct?'

Mr Anderson smiled with just a corner of his mouth, as if shrugging. 'My father is.' There was a hint of disdain in his tone, implying Kurt should ask no more. There was a pause where no one spoke a word. 'Anyway,' he began, a confident smile flashing once more. However, it seemed he had opened his mouth before he had anything to say, so, floundering for a moment, he closed his mouth and cleared his throat; the previous smile slowly faded. 'I…' he tried again.

Bothered by the rising and inexplicable tension, Kurt proffered his hand to shake again. 'I look forward to working with you, Mr Anderson, sir.'

'Yes, well, you shall be an excellent addition to the team. You have exquisite taste,' he complimented, indicating Kurt's attire with a small gesticulation. But then, as if realising this was not an appropriate thing for one man to say to another, he blushed as if he had said too much. His grip on Kurt's hand went slack, before he quickly, but politely, released him.

Before Kurt could even utter a single syllable of his flummoxed 'thank you,' Mr Anderson mumbled an awkward, 'Welcome to our humble establishment' and strode off.

Flustered, Kurt stiffly walked to the door of his new workplace, his own cheeks enflamed.


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: Sorry for the wait! Hopefully chapter three won't take as long...You'll see why...

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><p>The halls of the Dalton Gentlemen's Club were lined with elegant tapestries and Greek statues; all of which enthralled young Mr Hummel as he meandered through the building, in search of the study. The club was more akin to a manor or a castle than anything else, and Kurt found himself wishing to live in such a place, rather than his own modest accommodations.<p>

However, when he reached the study where his fellow gentlemen were residing, a bowing servant opening the doors for him, all prior, naïve wants and wishes died. It was the epitome of high society male behavior: all grasping glasses of brandy and thickening the air with acrid cigar smoke. Kurt suddenly felt very queasy, reaching in his pocket to close his hand around his smelling salts but not daring to retrieve them. He did not want to appear weak among these distinguished men.

Except for a select few, they were all of them elderly and ruddy-faced, a few bearing militia metals on their breasts. It was unlikely, considered Kurt, that he would share common interests with any of these men, who seemed more intent on arguing than conversing.

Not long after entering the vast study—which likened to a library—did Kurt have the scrutinising gaze of every man in the room. With careful steps, he walked forward, eyes scanning the sea of faces. Bewilderment struck Kurt like a cannonball to the gut, as he stared with wide eyes at none other than a Mr Blaine Anderson.

At this distance, Kurt could see that despite his height, Mr Anderson commanded attention form his fellow Dalton members: he was surrounded by the younger ones, and the elders cast weary eyes in his direction upon Kurt's entry. However, there was another commanding man, sinister and cold in expression, who shared the same deceivingly warm eyes as his son; there was not a doubt in Kurt's mind the moment he clapped eyes on the figure that he was Blaine's father. His mouth held a cruel smirk, a thick beard surrounding it, as he gazed at Kurt.

As if he did not already feel ill, an unpleasantness coiled and settled into Kurt's belly. This man, tall and spindly thin, was such a stark difference from the amicable son he had met earlier that day. It confused him so. How could one be so entirely different from their parent.

Not to say that Kurt and his father shared much of a resemblance, but they held the same kindness, the same approachable air; the _feelings _from Blaine, for Kurt had come to call him by his Christian name so as not to confuse himself, and his father were completely different.

The silence stretched on. Tentatively, Kurt licked his lips, then attempted a shaky, 'Good morrow.'

Instantly, he regretted speaking; regretted letting his father convince him this was a good idea. He was by no means 'high society,' he worked in a shop for the love of Pete! Not only that, but it was a shop owned by none other than the very man who seemed to be in charge of this club!

Just when Kurt was about to edge from the room, young Blaine Anderson lit up like a sunrise, stepping forward to shake Kurt's hand. Unseen by the rest of the room, he winked in confidence. Kurt flushed, his breath catching in his throat. Blaine then swiveled on his heels, addressing the room: 'I give you, my highly esteemed friends, my colleague, Kurt Hummel.'

The response was scattered. Some murmured their reluctant hellos, some, particularly Blaine's friends, came forward, hands extended to greet the newcomer. Kurt heaved a quiet sigh of relief.

However; 'Colleague?' came the aptly cruel-sounding, thickly Scottish voice of Mr Anderson.

In front of him, Kurt could see Blaine stiffening. 'Yes, Father,' he confirmed through gritted teeth.

'Pray tell, then,' he scoffed, 'I see not a colleague before me? What I see is a boy, just out of university, I gather.'

'Oxford, yes,' supplied Kurt. He was proud of his schooling, he wouldn't be cowed.

'Ah, am I supposed to be impressed?'

Well. Yes, thought Kurt cheekily, though he held his tongue, and his ground.

'Father, don't be rude,' scolded—nay, pleaded—Blaine.

'Don't tell me what to do in my own house, boy!' he bellowed in response.

House? pondered Kurt. This was their house? Well, that explains a few things. Why hadn't his father told him? Did he just not know? Had the club let him in for the sole purpose of bullying him?

'In fact,' continued Mr Anderson, 'this boy doesn't even look like a boy. Certainly not a man. Probably unable to even grow a beard.' He guffawed, stroking his own, as the rest of the room followed suit.

Both Kurt and Blaine remained silent, shoulders tense. However, Kurt had had enough schoolyard bullies targeting him in his youth to know when to run, and he was wicked fast. He'd leave these old, wealthy men in the dust, choking on their cigars, if he had to.

'This is a Gentlemen's Club, for affluent men. We do not allow commoners of ill-breeding among us.'

'Then why—' began Blaine, but he stopped himself, ears turning pink.

His father sent him a stern glare, then continued: 'Let's see. Hummel, Hummel.' He turned the name over in his mouth, as though trying to remember where he'd heard it before. A cruel smile twisted his mouth. 'Ah yes, I remember now. You're _staff_.'

Kurt knew it had been too good to be true, a mere tailor in a shop rubbing elbows with the wealthy and well-to-do. He desperately fought the tears welling in his eyes. Blaine looked back at Kurt, looking as though his heart had dropped into his stomach. He again faced the crowd. 'Father,' he warned.

'Quiet, boy!' silenced Mr Anderson. Blaine winced, wavering in his resolve to defy his parent.

Blaine swallowed, as if some inner turmoil were roiling inside him. Kurt tried to take a step back, but Blaine's hand caught his wrist. He turned, his eyes pleading imploringly. Looking back at his father, he exclaimed: 'At least let him prove himself, do not be so quick to make your judgments.'

'Fair enough,' he conceded. 'This Mr Hummel has yet to prove himself.'

'And how might I?' enquired Kurt, stepping forward so that he was side by side with the man holding him by the wrist. Hastily, Blaine released him, his cheeks colouring violently. The look of shock on Mr Anderson's face from having such a bold demand directed his way did not last long; indeed, his sneer returned.

'A duel,' he answered.

'What?' demanded Blaine incredulously.

'Fencing.'

Kurt raised an eyebrow. 'You mean to suggest a wager?' he clarified.

He answered in the affirmative, then: 'With...' he turned to Blaine who seemed to be shaking his head, 'my son. Everyone agree that my son is the best of all of us? May not be the fairest fight, of course.' He chortled as if his throat were coated in grease.

When Kurt turned to look at Blaine, he wouldn't meet his eyes. He stared at the floor, clenching his fists. Although he wanted to be able to join, if only for Blaine, he would not attempt to best him in a fight. Not for that. Not so he would be among these pompous bastards. Not until Mr Anderson continued to goad Blaine, invoking a wince from the latter: 'Make Father proud.'

A fire built in Kurt's guts. He would prove his worth if it meant humiliating this despicable man. He would not be insulted further, not by the likes of him, even if it meant fighting Blaine. He would fight for the sake of both their honours. Defiantly, he glared at Mr Anderson and darkly uttered but two words: 'I accept.'


End file.
